


The Midnight Hunt

by SableR



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Avvar, Epilogue, F/M, Fade Dreams, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Gratuitous Smut, Interlude, Jaws of Hakkon, Jaws of Hakkon Spoilers, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Lavellan/Solas, Past Female Lavellan/Solas, Sexual Tension, Trespasser DLC spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinship.  Belonging.  In the wake of Corypheus's defeat, these things are more precious than ever to Inquisitor Lavellan.  She has a refuge far south of Skyhold, a place she can escape to when she simply wants to be herself.  Female Lavellan/Master of the Hunt from Jaws of Hakkon, set in the two-year gap between Corypheus's fall, and the events of Trespasser.  Spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon; epilogue will include spoilers for Trespasser and Solas/Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge

Fierce sunshine poured from the sky, and despite her best intentions, Clariel Lavellan found herself dozing off.  Fish for Storvacker could wait; her agents had already thoroughly spoiled the great hold-beast before the trip back south.  When her own thoughts drifted away, she could sense them gathering curiously through the Veil--the gods of the Avvar, drawn to the Anchor on the other side.  She couldn't distinguish which spirits she'd attracted, but she didn't really feel like making the effort, content to let them float around her.

No armor.  No weapons.  No soldiers buzzing around her.  Not even her usual companions. She curled her bare toes in the cool water and stretched out on her back like a contented cat.

"Off your guard, First-thaw?"  

The distant whispers of spirits scattered.  A shadow fell over her face, and she blinked up at Stone-Bear Hold's huntmaster.  He held the fishing net she'd abandoned in one hand, and two buckets in the other.  One was full of fat and glistening fish.

"This is the closest I get to an actual vacation," she said, closing her eyes again.  "So stop blocking the sun."  
  
She heard a low chuckle before he sat down beside her on the riverbank.  There was the heavy thud of his boots getting tossed aside, then a muttered curse.  
  
"Leg bothering you again?" she asked.  
  
"Always does when the snows melt.  Are you going to help me or not?"  The rough hilt of a gutting knife prodded her side, and she glared up at him, squinting against the sun.  His grin widened as he pressed the knife into her hand.  "Idleness doesn't suit you."  
  
"It doesn't suit you either," she shot back.  "If that's the best you can do."  But she sat up anyway and took the buckets from him.

The Avvar wasted nothing; the entrails went into the empty bucket for their goats. They sat in companionable silence, and Clariel let her mind wander again while her hands worked.  Whenever it tried to drift back to Skyhold (and the ignored correspondence from the Duchess of Jader), she gently nudged it back to the present.  The cool water washing over her heels.  Tadpoles tickling her toes.  Sunshine, spring breeze, birdsong, the prospect of freshly caught fish for dinner--and the steady warmth of the man sitting beside her.

The huntmaster kept his eyes his work, but she could tell his real attention was on her.  They kept brushing shoulders whenever he leaned to pick up another fish.  
  
"How do you  _stand_ it?" he blurted out, jolting her from her reverie.  "You're a creature of the wilds, like us.  How can you live in lowlander cities and castles without--"  
  
"Throwing a goat out a window?" she said with a laugh.  
  
"Or a person."  
  
Her smile twisted.  "Don't think I wasn't tempted.  The Orlesians can't stop marveling over how well I've acclimated.  A Dalish elf,  _tame_  enough to mingle with the Empire's elite."  The next stroke of the gutting knife almost took the trout's head off.  "Most days I just ignore them.  And when I can't bear it any longer, I leave Skyhold for a few weeks.  Sometimes with friends...sometimes by myself."  
  
His expression softened.  "I thought your excuse sounded feeble.  As if Storvacker needed _you_ to escort her home."  
  
Clariel shook her head.  It felt better to admit her restlessness to someone else even if she'd hated admitting it to herself.  She still had plenty to do as Inquisitor, but it wasn't the same without the breakneck pace she'd maintained against Corypheus.  Months later, and she was still neck-deep in the Great Game, still trying to help the new Divine.  She spent more of her time in fancy soirees than ancient ruins or dragon lairs, and she knew which she preferred. There was only so much enjoyment she could get out of discomfiting the Orlesian court.  
  
Her companion lapsed back into a thoughtful silence, for which she was grateful.  Then he abruptly stood up, tossed the remaining fish in the bucket, and offered her his hand.

"Finn can take the rest of these.  Come on.  You need time to prepare."

Clariel stared at him, utterly nonplussed.  
  
"The midnight hunt.  Rite of passage."  He pointed north, toward the rise where the Hakkonites made their fortress.  "I start there, you start from the hold at sundown.  We head for the river in the middle, and try to catch each other before dawn."  
  
"I--what--" She took a deep breath and tried again.  "You want to make  _me_ one of your hunters?"  
  
"Can't have you going soft on us, First-thaw.  You're kin."  
  
_Kin_.  He said it easily, almost casually, but it warmed her in a way that the sunshine hadn't.  He still had his hand extended to her; when she reached up to take it, her fingers practically disappeared in his calloused palm.  She let him pull her to her feet, and it suddenly occurred to her that she barely came up to his shoulder.  
  
"Are you at least going to tell me your name?" she asked.  "I like to know what my quarry is called."  
  
His dark grey eyes crinkled at the corners, and she felt him squeeze her hand before letting go.

"Catch me, and I'll tell you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for reading, kudos, and comments. If you haven't seen it already, the little verbal spat between the Master of the Hunt and Lavellan is hilarious, and formed the spark of inspiration for this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XN3iGv_yDpg Dat voice. Yum :)
> 
> Much love for the folks on BSN's Solas thread for encouraging me to clean this up and post it. I really enjoyed writing for Lavellan in a more relaxed manner, without worrying about THE FEELS.


	2. Hunt

Clariel paced up and down the path leading out of the hold, waiting for the sun to finish setting.  The few bites she'd managed for dinner were practically dancing in her stomach.  For the fourth time, she checked her bow, arrows, traps, and armor.  Storvacker lay in the very middle of the path to block her exit, and sniffed hopefully at her pockets whenever she approached.  
  
"Yeah, I know, wait until sundown," she said to the bear.  "He didn't need you to watch me.  And...I'm talking to a bear."  
  
Storvacker huffed loudly.  
  
"Wonderful.  Whatever you say.  Why did I agree to this?"  
  
Backing out was not an option; she'd never hear the end of it from him.  Or from Thane Sun-Hair, who'd given her a very searching look when she left her quarters dressed to hunt.  She had every confidence she could best him; he had the advantage of knowing the land, but she was quicker in the trees.  Height and stealth would be her advantage.  
  
No, it was his smile that made her stomach churn.  The wry half-grin that dared her to push him, challenge him.  The last rays of light disappeared into the mountains, and Storvacker rolled over to clear the path.  Clariel smiled, rubbing the bear's vast furry stomach as she passed.  
  
The pass was already in shadow, and she didn't have clear footprints to follow.  There was too much traffic in and out of the hold.  So she kept her eyes up and both hands free, heading straight for the river.  Torches and a campfire burned in the Inquisition camp to the west, and she carefully kept her distance.  The last thing she wanted was one of her people waylaying her.  
  
The Anchor flared briefly; she quickly stuffed her hand in her jacket, frowning.  It had done this before sealing the Breach, but the Breach was gone along with every other rift she could find.  And yet the mark continued to act of its own accord, seemingly at random.  She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around her left hand; she wasn't going to fail this hunt over something so stupid.  
  
Her fingers continued to tingle, but she ignored the feeling and started to climb up the riverbank.  The river curved up ahead into towering trees, and she could get an excellent vantage point from there.  She'd just pulled herself into the lower branches when she saw a thin blue stream of smoke rising into the air up the river.  
  
"Oh, please," she whispered, now grinning herself.  "Oldest trick in the book."  She continued to climb, finally stopping about halfway up the tree.  She couldn't see directly below due to the branches, but she didn't need to.  
  
The Frostback Basin sang with life, even moreso at night.  The too-quick splashing of giant spiders in the river below.  The occasional bellow of a bogfisher.  Birds went to sleep, but myriads of chirping insects woke up, and more than once she found herself transfixed by the huge moths who landed on the trunk behind her, their wings as wide as her palm.  One landed on the tip of her boot, and she reached out toward it, watching moonlight glimmer off its silver-green wings as it crept onto her finger.  
  
THUD!  
  
A blunted arrow struck inches from her outstretched fingertips, and she nearly jumped out of the tree.  
  
Laughter rang through the forest below her. "You're not native, First-thaw!  The beasts know it, and so do I!"  
  
Cursing herself for losing focus, Clariel yanked off her scarf and activated the Anchor.  A beam of dazzling green light pulsed from her left hand, and before she even heard the huntmaster swearing, she leaped to the next tree.  Her branch creaked ominously, so she dropped to a wider one, right as torchlight flared behind her.  
  
_He doesn't see well in the dark_ , she suddenly remembered.  _He's tracking by movement and sound_.  
  
She held her breath and pressed herself as flat as she could against the tree trunk, balancing both feet on the low-hanging branch.  She could hear him walking around below, see the torchlight flickering up through the dark leaves.  He made no attempt to hide himself as he searched for her.  
  
"Are you really going to make me come up there and get you?" he shouted, and he sounded less amused at the prospect of tree-climbing.  
  
Clariel didn't answer.  She didn't even breathe.  Goading prey was the second oldest trick in the book.  She stayed glued to the bark, waiting for the torchlight to move directly beneath her.  The moment it did, she dropped a smoke flask.  The next branch took her almost down to the ground; squinting against the pouring smoke, she landed lightly and took off into the darkness.  
  
Ten minutes later and halfway up another tree, she stopped.  She was being stupid.  He knew she could climb.  It would only be a minute or two before he cornered her again.  Her eyes landed on the cave where she'd found one of Ameridan's memories.  Clariel slid out of the tree and began picking her way over, careful only to step on stone or logs.  
  
It was a temporary arrangement at best; she hadn't covered her tracks while running, and the huntmaster was easily good enough to follow her, even with his bad eye.  Clariel slunk further into the cave, feeling her way through the almost complete gloom; her troops were clearly using this place as extra storage.  Her hands kept bumping into wooden barrels and large crates.  She hid behind what felt like a pile of firewood, thinking hard.

Something didn't add up.  Why had he lit the torch?  She could already see better than he could; why announce his position to her?  Was he trying to bait her?

Did he  _want_  to be caught?

Then the answer hit her, and she felt her ears burn for having been so gullible.  But she had everything she needed to set a trap of her own, right here.  The outline of a plan took shape, and she didn't have much time before he caught up--or she lost her nerve.  She focused and lit the Anchor once more, a green glimmer in her palm as she began opening and rifling through crates.    
  
By the time she heard heavy footsteps at the mouth of the cave, she was almost done.  Warm firelight washed over the walls of the cave, and the crates were all stacked neatly to the side.  She sat next to the fire with a blanket around her shoulders, and smiled at him when he came into view.  
  
"Nice of you to get a move on," she said.  
  
The towering Avvar stopped at the edge of the firelight, but she could still see him frowning at her.  "Is this just a game to you, First-thaw?"  
  
"As much as it's a game to you."  
  
He arranged his face in a fair impression of confusion, but she'd been around Varric long enough to know when someone was full of it.  
  
"There's no such thing as a midnight hunt," she said.  "You just wanted to see if I'd go with you."  She stood, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders.  
  
His jaw dropped at the sight of her in her white linen underclothes.  She smiled with all the innocent sweetness she could muster, fighting the blush that now crept up her throat, the sudden warmth spreading through her chest.  

"So," she said as casually as she could, perching herself on one of the crates.  "You should tell me your name, now that I've caught you."  
  
His flabbergasted expression turned into that very familiar grin, and he stepped into the firelight with her.  He looked from her to the bedroll she'd laid out, to the bottle of wine and wheel of cheese sitting atop a barrel beside her.  
  
"You," he chuckled, shaking his head.  "You devious little creature."  
  
" _You're_  the one who tried to fool  _me_ ," she pointed out.  
  
"Poorly," he admitted.  His eyes never left hers.  "Not sure what I was thinking."  
  
"You probably weren't."  
  
He scowled and walked right up to her, reaching over her head toward the bottle of wine.  Clariel's breath caught; he was close enough to touch, close enough for her to feel his steady breaths and the warmth of his skin.  She had to crane her neck to look up at him.  
  
"I'm not one of your soft lowlanders, First-thaw.  You don't need to waste--" he paused and squinted at the label "--whatever this is on me."  One flick of his wrist sent the bottle bouncing onto a bedroll, then rolling off into the darkness.  
  
"Good," said Clariel.  "It wasn't very good wine anyway."  She took a deep breath to calm herself.  "And you still haven't given me your name."  
  
For the second time that day, he extended a hand to her, and this time she didn't hesitate in taking it.  
  
"Brelor," he whispered as he pulled her into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And our gruff, cranky guy has a name! I couldn't just keep calling him "huntmaster" for the whole fic :P I tried. It was awkward.


	3. Strike

His hands nearly encircled her waist; they were calloused, but surprisingly gentle.  Clariel had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the buckles on his armor, which made him laugh again.  
  
"I was planning on this taking all night," he said, thumbs brushing her hips.  
  
"It can."  She tossed his armor aside and braced her palms against his chest.  "If you're up for it, old man."  
  
It was a familiar jibe, the first she'd ever given him, and he laughed even harder at it.  He picked her up by the waist, ignoring her startled yelp, and sat down on the bedroll with her stradding his thighs.  "Old man," he echoed, shaking his head.  "Undress me, then, if you think I can't manage."  
  
"Don't be daft."  She rolled off his lap, gesturing toward her own state of near-undress.  "I already did the hard part for you."  
  
Brelor gave as good as he got, she had to admit that.  The shoulder pads were already gone, but he took his time with the rest.  He began slowly unlacing his boots, then the cords on his trousers, and she found herself wondering how on earth such simple clothes could take so damn long to remove.  His eyes never left her face, but she couldn't help staring at the many scars that criss-crossed his body, gleaming in the firelight.  
  
She rested her fingertips on a long, smooth mark across his ribs, and felt his breathing stutter.  "Where did you get this?"  
  
He gently pushed her hand away.  "You first," and he pointed at the small scar across her forehead.  
  
Of course, he had to pick the most embarrassing one.  "I fell out of a tree when I was little," she admitted.  "My stupid cousin's fault."  
  
His lips quirked, but mercifully, he didn't mock her.  "I took a swipe from a chevalier's squire during a raid."  His boots came off next, revealing yet another scar across the top of his foot.  "And that's the chevalier himself.  Still came out of it prettier than he did."

They laughed together, the sound mingling and filling the little cavern.  The jolting feeling in her stomach began to ease; she hadn't expected it to be this easy, this comfortable.  Like he was one of her friends from Skyhold, someone she'd known for longer than a few months.  Clariel held his right hand in both of hers, tracing a bright white line across his knuckles.  "And this?"  
  
"Duel with a hunter who thought she was better than me.  Sound familiar at all?"  
  
She dropped his hand.  "I hope you don't plan on leaving any scars."  
  
"Only if you want them."  Brelor pulled the soft fur wrappings from around his ankles, his eyes now wandering over her smooth, unblemished arms and legs.  "You don't have many for one who kills gods."  
  
" _My_ armor covers my chest," she said pointedly.

"Lowlander prudishness at its finest."

That made her bristle, more than anything else he'd said.  "I am _not_ \--" she began hotly, before she caught his grin.

"Easy, First-thaw."  

She shivered.  The legend-mark was supposed to be a symbol of respect, of belonging.  But when _he_ said it in _that_ particular whisper--she snapped back to her senses just in time to see him lean in for a kiss.

Her first, silly thought when their lips met was how strange his stubble felt against her skin.  Then he twisted, and with that one movement, had her pinned underneath him on the bedroll.  She murmured his name into the kiss, felt his smile broaden before he pulled away.  His mouth trailed down to her neck, along her throat; his kisses weren't what she'd expected.  He touched and held so lightly, mouth and tongue barely brushing her skin.  
  
"Brelor," she said again.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"You still haven't finished with our clothes."  
  
Without any warning, he reached under her smallclothes and tore the fabric in two.  
  
"Impatient," he chided, and slid his thumb along her slit.  "Ah--" his voice dropped to a low rumble "-- _very_ impatient."  
  
Clariel arched into his touch, a startled gasp escaping her.  He shifted above her, sliding his arm under her neck to support her.  With his free hand, he tore the breastband free as if it was so much paper; his palm cupped her breast, gently at first, then with greater urgency when she bucked against him.

There was an edge to him now, a roughness that belied his smile.  His hand trailed back down toward her waist, the ridge of her hips, coming to rest between her legs.  He pressed his thumb against her clit--slowly at first, then faster when she felt him slide two fingers inside her.  A gentle motion that nevertheless made her tremble.  He pulled back from her, leaving only his fingertips inside, and she nearly snarled at him.

Now his grin was downright infuriating.  So she grabbed his hand and took his fingers in her mouth, tasting herself on his skin. 

"I seem to remember," she murmured between kissing each fingertip, "that you boasted about besting me with one hand tied behind your back.  And your eyes bound."

A long, breathless moment passed.  "Not tonight," he finally said.  "Shame to waste such a pretty sight."

"Flatterer."

"Not if it's true."  

He curled his fingers inside her mouth, catching her chin with his thumb.  They lingered for what felt like hours, eyes locked, neither of them willing to give way.  This, she realized in a sudden fierce rush, was what she wanted, what she'd been longing for since arriving in the Frostback basin.  This tenuous push and pull of another's passion and strength and fire.  She bit him, just hard enough to sting, and was rewarded with a startled string of Avvar curses.

"Too easy," she laughed, pushing his hand away.

Her words snapped him back to his senses with a vengeance.  Brelor was laughing with her, laughing as he pinned her legs underneath his.  This time, he didn't bother with light, teasing kisses or faint brushes of skin on skin.  This time, he trapped her wrists with one hand and spread her open with the other, fingers pushing inside and filling her.  She could just imagine all the clever retorts on the tip of his tongue, but he said none of them, setting an almost indecent pace and listening to her soft, shallow breaths.  His thumb circled her clit, never quite touching, holding back and waiting for her to come to him.  To give in, and let him win this round.

The thought of denying him didn't even occur to her.  She already felt the heat pooling between her legs, the tingle up her spine.  She gazed up at him, green eyes wide and shameless. 

Brelor slowed his pace and freed her wrists.

"Touch yourself," he said.

Despite their positions, the tremor in his voice gave him away.  So she paid him back for earlier, taking her sweet time.  Her hands started at her neck, slowly trailing over the dip of her collarbone.  Even her own touch sent shivers running through her.  At the sight of her bringing her own nipples to hardened peaks, he groaned softly, his fingers moving with renewed fervor.  She lingered over her breasts, and his eyes devoured her, breath catching each time her fingers circled.

Then finally,  _finally_ , she let her hands slip between her legs, ghosting over her clit, unable to stop the moan that escaped her.  Brelor's jaw clenched, and she heard him draw a deep, steadying breath.  For her part, Clariel was well beyond any pretense of control, and moaned again as her fingers began to move in time with his.  She arched her hips, seeking more, more warmth and fullness and pressure.  

He obliged, lips locking with hers in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth.  His palm pressed down on hers, letting her grind against their joined hands while he fucked her mouth with his tongue, her body with his fingers.  She felt him laugh into her mouth, drawing out his triumph before he curled his fingers inside her. The touch broke her, burning all thought away as she writhed and shuddered and frantically gasped his name.  But he didn't pull away until she'd completely spent herself, warm and wet in his arms.

"Ah, First-thaw," she heard him saying when she'd regained her breath.  "Here I thought--"

Whatever he thought would have to wait.  He swore again when he felt her hand slide into the loose waist of his pants.  Clariel couldn't help a smirk at the expression on his face.  "What?" she said innocently, wrapping her palm around him.  The effect was somewhat spoiled by her hiss of surprise when she felt the full length of his cock.  For a fraction of a second, she hesitated, and of course he noticed.  

"Like this."  He yanked off his pants and pulled her on top of him.  As they moved, his cock pressed against the length of her sex, up and down, and she couldn't help grinding against him, just to feel him shiver.  She did it over and over, and each time, she thought about what he would be like inside her.  How he would fill her, spread her, even.  The dimming firelight cast his face in shadow, but here and there, she caught the heat in his smile.

"Keep this up," he said roughly, "and we aren't going to make it all night."

"Really?" she said without thinking, startled by his bluntness.

If anything, he looked faintly annoyed, and she had to fight an insane urge to giggle.  

His hand cupped her backside and squeezed, hard enough to make her start.  "I could have fucked you from the moment I walked into this cave.  I could have fucked you by the river, or against that damn tree.  Do you know what a pain in the ass it is, trying to go about your day half-hard?"

Now she did laugh, and eventually, grudgingly, so did he.  She waited until they'd both quieted before kissing him again, a teasing and ephemeral brush that left them both gasping for more.

"Sorry," she whispered.  "I'll make it up to you."

She took him slowly, a little deeper each time she moved her hips.  Her hands again traced his scars; the slash from the squire met a jagged burn, which ran up to the hollow of his throat.  Tongue and lips followed her hands, tasting sweat and leather and something like pine resin on his skin.  "Mmm..." she murmured, feeling his pulse beat underneath her lips.  "Tell me where you got this one."

She felt him shake his head.  "Your turn for stories, First-thaw," and he could not keep the eagerness from his voice.

"Tell _me_ how it feels to duel a god."

For a moment, it was as though she was there again, facing the great frost dragon.  Its foot-long claws lashing out inches from her face, her nerves aflame with the terror and fierce joy that each breath could be her last.  When she lifted her head to meet his eyes, some of it must have shown in her face, for he let out his breath in a low, shaky hiss.

"It feels," she decided, "like you've never been more alive."  She braced herself on his chest and began to move again, slowly at first.  "Like every gasp of air stops time."  Her hands found his, guided them up to palm her breasts.  

"The rest of the world disappears.  There's nothing but the dragon, the cracking ice, and the bowstring taut between your fingers."  

"First-thaw..."

"Shh.  Just listen."

 He fell silent, hunter's eyes dark with lust.

"You step, and it rears.  You dodge, and it breathes."  They were moving faster now, his calloused hands rough against her nipples.  She leaned down to kiss him again--his neck, his throat, the pounding beat of life under his skin.  And perhaps he couldn't even understand the rest of the words she murmured into his skin--elven and common, a litany of battle and life and passion.  But he responded in kind; his arms banded around her with breathtaking strength, and his tongue traced the curve of her ear.  Teasing the tip until her words dissolved into soft, incoherent moans...until the adrenaline of the memory and the reality of the man moving inside her blended into one.

He came first with a hard and silent shudder, nails marking her back.  But he kept pushing inside her and she trembled, needing only a little more to tip her over the edge.  Her fingers found her clit for the second time that night, and she buried her face in his shoulder to stifle her cries.

Slowly, through a warm haze, her senses came back to her.  The rough stubble grazing her forehead.  The fabric of the bedroll between her toes.  Brelor's much longer limbs entwined with hers.  She gently disentangled herself, slid off of him and put out the last of the spluttering flames.

"So?" she asked over her shoulder.

She got a sleepy chuckle, followed by an arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his broad chest.  "Damn good.  But maybe not  _all_ night."

She giggled, resting her head on his arm.  "Yet I don't think you'll complain if I wake you between now and sunrise."

"Am I waking with my cock in your hand?"

Once upon a time, such words would have made her blush from the tips of her ears to her toes.  Now, she merely laughed and poked him in the side before closing her eyes.

"Now who's impatient, old man?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the delay, and I would greatly appreciate any constructive criticism for this chapter. It's been a while since I've written smut this detailed and involved.


	4. Epilogue

Clariel felt a little bit better every time she told the whole story after the Exalted Council.  Like a piece of terrible truth left her to reside with someone else, easing its weight.  Thane Sun-Hair, her augur, and her huntmaster listened in silence, for which Clariel was grateful.  She kept her good hand occupied, stroking Storvacker's coarse fur as the bear lounged beside her.  
  
When she reached the end of her story, Svarah Sun-Hair shook her head.  "You have a worse knack for trouble than Tyrdda Bright-Axe."  
  
"Believe me, I know."  
  
The thane of Stone-Bear Hold got to her feet.  "I appreciate the warning, First-thaw.  Our augur can help with the gods, look out for any who sicken and make sure they stay where they belong."  The augur nodded his assent, and Clariel let out a sigh of relief.  They believed her.  They didn't think she was delusional or compromised or even foolish.  She almost wanted to hug the three towering Avvar where they stood.  
  
She settled for pulling a map out of her pocket; red checks marked the location of each elvhen ruin she knew in the southern Frostbacks.  "I don't know what Solas is looking for specifically, but he always took an interest in sites of ancient magic. All I ask is that you keep an eye out for any strange activity in your area, especially elves who don't look like they belong."   
  
The augur took the map from her, frowning.  "The gods are drawn to particular places in the world, as they were drawn to your mark."  He pointed toward two blank spots on her map, and looked to the huntmaster, who hadn't taken his eyes off Clariel the whole meeting.  
  
"I'll handle it," said Brelor.  "Trespassers don't last long in our lands."  
  
"Don't cross them if you can avoid it," said Clariel sharply.  "Solas is the most powerful mage I've ever met.  I don't want Stone-Bear Hold in harm's way."  
  
Brelor fixed her with his calm, steady gaze.  "If this god of yours is going to end the world, we are already in harm's way."  
  
Clariel held her tongue.  Solas isn't my god, she wanted to say.  But she could barely sort out what he _was_ to her, never mind explain it to another, so she kept silent while the three Avvar gathered around her map, murmuring among themselves, adding additional landmarks and points of interest.  She leaned against Storvacker's warm, furry bulk and closed her eyes.  She felt exhausted suddenly, drained, like she'd had poison drawn from her veins.  She heard two pairs of feet leave the room, but still didn't move.  
  
Brelor's hand touched her shoulder, armor creaking as he knelt beside her.  
  
"Sorry," she whispered.  
  
"If I have to knock sense into you, I'd have you see it coming."  
  
Reluctantly, Clariel opened her eyes to see him smiling at her.  "You and I had our time," he said simply.  "And we part as friends.  No regrets, First-thaw."  
  
"Clariel," she corrected him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We're friends.  My name is Clariel."  
  
His eyes widened in surprise.  "That's a very old name.  Our skalds sing her song when the winters are at their fiercest."  He shook his head.  "You're not much like her."  
  
Clariel laughed.  "My father liked the name, and the story.  He was our clan's storyteller, and he first heard it from a Ferelden merchant."  
  
"You miss him."  
  
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  She was headed north after this: to Kirkwall to visit Varric, then to her family in Wycome, if she could bring herself to face them.  She'd been putting it off for two years now...caught between wanting to see them, and knowing she would never quite belong again.  Just imagining the whispers over her bare face made her feel cold inside.  
  
Brelor offered his hand, and she let him pull her to her feet.  She felt him press something into her good hand--his hunting knife, its well-worn surface etched with tiny notches for each important kill.  
  
"I can't--" she began automatically.  
  
"You can," he said, closing her fingers over the handle.  "Hunt well, Clariel First-thaw.  Make us proud."  
  
Almost no one used her name nowadays.  Hearing it brought the rush of warmth she'd come to associate with the Avvar.  The feeling of belonging, with none of the painful complexities of the elvhen or the burdens of the Inquisition.  The terrible, echoing isolation inside her began to ease, for the first time since the Exalted Council.  
  
"I will," she promised.  "Someone has to keep besting you, old man."  
  
They laughed together, stepping out into the cold mountain air.

* * *

  
_Solas is waiting for her that night, under the scar left by the Breach.  Her left hand no longer appears in her dreams, but neither do the metal hooks that now serve as a replacement.  But she does have Brelor's knife tucked into her belt, and feels a little steadier for that._  
  
_"Are you all right?" she asks the great white wolf._  
  
_It's a terrible question, with a terrible answer, and they both know it.  Neither of them are all right, and perhaps he never will be.  He walks a path of death and ruin, and when she looks at him carefully, as she does now, she can see a glimmer of red in those blue wolf eyes._  
  
_"Don't worry about me," she tells him, though she knows he won't heed her.  "I'm not alone."  Her voice catches a little, but she continues relentlessly._  
  
_"You don't have to be alone either, my love."_  
  
_They always reach this point, the impasse where she reaches for him, and he vanishes into nothingness.  But tonight, the silence left in his wake isn't quite so absolute._

_There is no beacon to guide them back to her, no blaze of the Anchor.  But the gods of the Avvar still remember her.  Most keep their distance, uncertain, frightened in the shadow of the Dread Wolf.  Only Valor approaches, wearing the visage of Inquisitor Ameridan.  Its face is less lined than the real Ameridan's, and the dragonslayer's golden armor blazes with light._

_The spirit does not speak, but there is no need.  She feels the Fade change around them, feels herself changing with it.  Echoes of distant deeds ripple through the dream: the siege of Adamant Fortress, Ameridan's desperate last stand against the dragon, Stone-Bear Hold's warriors scaling a sheer wall with knives clenched in their teeth.  There is nothing gentle about Valor; it is a fire that ignites within and around her, a deafening drum beating under her feet.  She wakes with that rhythm still ringing in her ears, and a fierce spark of truth in her heart._

_Valor is not the absence of fear.  It is the **conquest** of fear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and especially for your patience while I worked out these last two chapters. I really wanted to give my Lavellan some fun in the years between DA:I and Trespasser, and a safe place where she could ease her burdens. I love the Avvar, and they fit the bill on both :)


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